Nathan Johnson was proud of the commonwealth of Massachusetts. His people had lived in the midst of a group of Dutch dairy farmers comfortably spread out over the meadowlands near Sheffield. They had owned a tiny piece of land. Nathan had gone to school, learned a trade and, like many another Massachusetts farm boy, made a trip to sea. For a time he had lingered in Scotland where a Negro was a curiosity. There was something about the hills and valleys with their jutting rocks that drew him. Then he realized he was homesick. He returned to Massachusetts, married and plied his trade--he was a carpenter--near the sight and sound and smell of the sea. He had seen the face of slavery, but he believed the State of Massachusetts would educate the nation away from such evil practices. David Ruggles had written Nathan Johnson about Frederick. The answer had come back: “Send him along!” And Johnson had hurried to the dock to meet the “poor critters.” But the young man who stepped from the boat and took his hand with such a firm grip did not call forth pity. To the Yankee he had the look neither of a fugitive nor a slave. Ma Johnson blocked all questions while she bustled about setting a good, hot meal before the newcomers. “Dead beat, I know,” was her comment. “Now you just wash up and make yourselves right at home.” She poured water and handed them thick white towels, while little Lethia and Jane stared with wide eyes. Everything floated in a dreamy mist. This house, this abundant table, this room were unbelievable. Frederick’s fingers itched to take down the books from their shelves, to pick up papers lying about. With an effort he brought his eyes back to the animated face of his host. “There ain’t a thing in the laws or constitution of Massachusetts to stop a colored man being governor of the state, if the folks sees fit to elect him!” Lethia nodded her small head gravely and smiled at Frederick. Ma Johnson sighed gently. Nathan was off on his favorite topic--Massachusetts! But that was safe talk for these two nice young people. They could just eat in peace. She set a plate of savory clam chowder in front of Anna. “No slaveholder’d dare try takin’ a slave out of New Bedford!” The glasses quivered as Johnson thumped the table. Frederick smiled. “I’m glad to hear that--after what they told me about New York.” “Humph!” The Yankee snorted. “New York ain’t in Massachusetts, young man. All sorts of people there. Can’t count on ’em!” Ma Johnson gently intervened. “Reckon we have some troublemakers, too, even in New Bedford.” “Ay, and I reckon we know how to take care of ’em!” It was Indian summer in New England. The evenings were still long, with no suggestion of frost in the air. After supper they sat in the yard, and between long puffs on his pipe the host talked and gradually drew out the young man. Came the moment when he took his pipe from his mouth and sat forward on his chair, lips pressed together in a grim line.